


Meek heart

by Naelyn



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Awesome Gwen (Merlin), Canon Era, Caretaking, Caring, Character Study, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Empathy, F/M, Feelings, Gwen-centric, Introspection, Light Angst, Merlin (TV) Season/Series 04, POV Gwen (Merlin), Protective Lancelot (Merlin), Sensitivity, Speaking about feelings, Therefore, and Gwen being Gwen, basically Gwen and Lancelot being soft together, mentions of mourning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-03
Updated: 2021-01-03
Packaged: 2021-03-13 11:21:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28527627
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Naelyn/pseuds/Naelyn
Summary: And yes, at times, she wishes that for one person, for at least one person, she might be enough. Enough to have them be alright, with her. Feel good. Feel her love, and have that be enough. Yes, she wishes.And maybe that’s her problem, in the end.Because, see, here’s the thing.Gwen loves. Perhaps too much for her own good; too much for anyone’s own good, in fact.--Gwen has always felt things very acutely, always loved people very deeply, and all her life, she's heard people say that caring 'too much' was a weakness, that it's something most people shouldn't bother to do.But then she begins to realise that maybe that's not entirely true.
Relationships: Gwen/Lancelot (Merlin)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 8





	Meek heart

**Author's Note:**

> Hi!  
> This is something quite short and simple about empathy, the angst of feeling 'too much', and the solace of finding someone who understands. I'm really not sure how realistic it is, but it's really just something that gave me pleasure as I wrote it.  
> It's also probably a bit too OOC, since it's the first time I'm writing from Gwen's perspective, and I sort of transposed an important topic to me to Merlin characters, but I hope you enjoy reading it anyway, and I hope it gives you as much comfort as it gave me as I was writing it.  
> I'd be really glad to know what you think of it. :)

Ever since being a child, Gwen has been told, and repeatedly so, that she detains the power to mend broken hearts; the power to, somehow, with nothing more than a look and a touch, ease the troubled spirits of another human being. “One look at your face,” her father used to say, “that’s all it takes to soothe a poor man’s aching heart.” Apparently, Gwen’s mother was the same. Always eager to listen and to help people heal. “You keep us grounded. The lot of us. Even those who don’t deserve it.”

And so, rather quickly, Gwen has become what one could perhaps call a _rock_ in her family – the very same family that has been disintegrating over the years, each member leaving one after the other.

Often, she has wondered. _If I am so sturdy a rock, then why do people keep running away? Why do my loved ones keep leaving me, one after the other, parents, brothers and friends?_ And yet she has done her best, her _very_ best, to be enough, enough for them, enough for everyone, but apparently… apparently, even that did not suffice.

Because none of the words she said or the embraces she gave were enough to keep them all from leaving her at some point.

And yes, at times, she wishes that for one person, for at least _one_ person, she might be enough. Enough to have them be alright, with her. _Feel_ good. Feel her love, and have that be enough. Yes, she wishes.

And maybe that’s her problem, in the end.

Because, see, here’s the thing.

Gwen loves. Perhaps too much for her own good; too much for anyone’s own good, in fact. But, even more than that, she _feels_. Maybe others feel the same way as she, but she doubts it. She is _constantly_ filled with this urge to make things _better_ , however way that may be, always filled with this urge, stronger even than duty, to make things _be alright_. And if they’re not alright, then neither is she. If her friends are hurting, then so is she. Simple as that. She _feels_ things more acutely than she ought to. And it’s not right, she knows that, but she can’t help it. Other people aren’t like that. Not most of them, anyway. That, or they are very good at hiding it. And Gwen – Gwen doesn’t know why she feels so much. Maybe it’s a way to bind people to her, a way to keep them close, to keep them safe. She doesn’t know.

But she feels, more than most men, and there’s nothing she can do about it, nothing she can do to ease the pain. Of course, it’s not solely pain. It can be joy as well, delight, elatedness, and in these moments of great bliss, she likes to think that she’s more fortunate than most, more fortunate because she can _feel_ so much that at precious times, she feels like there is only joy in her soul, joy and love and nothing else. At times, see, she’s _overwhelmed_ ; overwhelmed with the very best feelings on this Earth, wishing she could feel them forever, and the more others laugh, the more she laughs. Sometimes, she tells herself that this world of theirs could hardly be more beautiful than it currently is, and so she finds herself grateful, immensely grateful, for all the wonders that it shelters. All the marvellous sensations that it has given her. _How beautiful humans are_ , she thinks. _How stunningly our hearts are shaped. Does it feel so good for everyone?_

But then – there are other times. Other times, when things aren’t that easy anymore, because, all of a sudden, this world is not so bright any longer. All of a sudden, she can sense the misery all around her, the anger and the pain, and, oh, the moon looks quite lonely today, does she not? She senses a tinge of desolation in the morning, and then that’s all she can see for the remnants of the day. And she smiles, she smiles and smiles and smiles, but there’s nothing she can do to keep her eyes from getting wet after awhile.

Sure, there are people who notice, but… let us just say that there are those who notice, and those who _really_ notice. Among the latter, there’s of course her father, her beloved late father who once told her that to feel so much was as much a gift as a blessing, and wished her to find somebody who could appease that part of her, who could give her peace. She suspects Merlin has found out, too, and that he understands quite a bit of it as well. But… in truth… few people ever pay real attention. Sure, they see her, and sure, they notice, but they are quick to disregard it as a sign of weakness, weakness and nothing else. There are many who call her _meek of heart_ and leave it at that, putting her tears on account of her gender. They’ve no idea how it is. Really. They haven’t got the slightest clue. Gwen, however, can’t even find it in herself to blame them: after all, she can hardly understand it herself on most days.

She would like to say that she’s learnt to master it, for that would be a nice thought, but she still struggles, she _is_ still struggling, and every now and then, she breaks. She cannot master this thing, not properly, nor can she even understand it. All she knows is that, on some days, all it takes is one sigh of unhappiness to reduce her good spirits to nothing. And that Camelot, alas, in spite of all the happiness that it has brought her, is far from being the merriest place on Earth. People kill there, and beg, and die, and Gwen hates every second of it.

She wouldn’t go so far as to call this _meekness of heart_ a flaw or a weakness, though, because, really, it’s not. It’s not! Yes, it weighs her down on many dark days, but it also allows her to see so much! She sees things as more than what they just are. And Gwen has learnt to use these abilities, if she may call them so, for good. She tries to be kinder to people. To sustain her judgement. To remember that in every body, there is a soul, and that each soul is cracked in its own way. Being the way she is permits her to remember that; to remember that each soul breathes and feels and hurts the same way as any other, therefore being worthy of respect and love.

Of course, it’s not always easy to experiment another man’s feelings as though they were your own. But it is what she is, it is who she is, and she has made peace with it.

Although she tries to hide it from others, since she is not particularly keen on the idea of others knowing about this, it is a mystery to none that in her heart, she cares for others, and when she seems to care a bit more than she ought to, people assume she is merely trying to be sympathetic, which suits her well, really. Therefore, she no longer tries to be particularly discreet about it; she simply is herself, and locks herself into the certitude that nobody will notice.

Except – Lancelot comes to Camelot then. For good, this time. He really is here to stay.

And if there is something that Lancelot is _not_ ¸ it is idle in his observations. Lancelot observes people. Gwen knows that, and it is one of the things she likes – loves? – best about him. She appreciates the way he watches over his friends and always appears to notice when something’s not quite right. It’ll take one stiff gesture from Merlin for him to deduce that his friend is hurt, and one short answer from Gwaine for him to understand that something’s bothering the knight. He notices things, and always does his best to leave them _better_ than as he found them. He is… everything, really, everything that a knight ought to be, _and more_.

And everyone loves him for it.

Obviously, Guinevere does, too. How could she not? She cannot picture a single world in which she would not fall for him. The gods help her, she loves him, and does so with all of her heart.

But that is another matter entirely, and not one of great importance at the moment.

The thing is, he cares, and people love him for it. Of course, there will always be a few who’ll complain, claiming him to be _too_ much of a protector – really, how could one possibly care _too_ much, especially one like Lancelot? –, but they don’t matter. Gwen thinks that the way that he cares so ardently is one of the most beautiful things about him, and she admires him immensely for this ability of his, to look after this world and makes sure he makes it better. Lancelot has always been sharp-eyed, ever since the day she met him, truth be told, and that’s a good thing, a marvellous thing; only, Gwen, in her praises of the knight, has overlooked one detail: he observes people, and people includes _her_.

And Gwen – Gwen’s not used to people caring. She’s not pretending that nobody ever cared for her, because that would be a lie, but what she means is, in spite of people caring, few people know how to care the _right_ way, and most people, in fact, dismiss her feelings as being entirely typical weaknesses, that of a meek little thing that’s too weak to face the terrible realities of their world. Whenever they see her cry over some poor man or woman’s misery, they give her a worried glance, that is, until their eyes land on the person whose misfortune she is crying for, and then they give a knowing, _ah!_ , and tell her that she’s got to toughen up, laughing, _ah, women!_

Lancelot, however, is different.

He doesn’t call her _meek of heart_ when he first sees glints of tears in her eyes when Elyan’s drunk in the tavern and speaking of his guilt related to his trips abroad and their parents’ death, nor does he ask of her that she holds her tears while heads are being chopped off in the courtyard. Instead of doing that, he snakes an arm around her brother’s neck, whispering words into his ear, or brushes a hand against Guinevere’s back and gently watches her, with neither judgement nor dismissal. Although he doesn’t miss the way things affect her, or the opinions of many knights on the subject, deeming it to be a normal thing for a woman, he himself does not seem to think of her more poorly for it. He doesn’t hesitate to hand her a sword should the need arise, and doesn’t attempt to hide unpleasant truths from her. Whatever conclusions that her reactions might have led him to, he doesn’t treat her as a feeble thing, like the others do. He doesn’t seem to assign her sensitivity some kind of weakness, of inability to face ugly aspects of this world. And this is new for her: to have somebody see her tears, and yet not resort to calling her weak. It is new, and nice, and it makes her wish that she could show him more of her, more of what she is, and be certain that he would keep treating her the same way.

She dares not, though.

Eventually, he sees, for eventually, she breaks. That’s the thing about her feelings: as pliant as they might be for a couple of days, weeks, months, even, there always comes a day when they escape from her grasp, a day when all the resolve in the world does not suffice to keep them _in_. She’ll hold on for days. Manage to bury them, to contain this deluge of emotions that keep pouring in, burying them with easy smiles and chuckles… but then there’ll come a point when it’ll become too much, all of a sudden, and just – burst. 

She’ll break.

Gwen has learnt to recognise the days when her mood is the most fragile: on those days, all of her senses are somehow heightened, especially the hearing. One irritating, repeated noise will take huge proportions, and so will one unique sigh, that she’ll automatically identify as a sign of huge pain. She’ll start paying attention to these… things. These little, to most people insignificant, components of everyday life. A sigh, a hitch in the breath, a slight glower. _Anything, really._ An addition of small signs of discontentment, resulting in a pyramid of misery. Early in the day, she’ll start grinding her teeth, trying to swallow down a lump in her throat, and failing to breathe deeply. Every noise will be heard very acutely, and she’ll wish she could just press both hands against her ears _and stop hearing and feeling it all_. She hates herself for being so dependent on others’ moods, and hates others, just a little, for being so unhappy. She forces herself to smile, to laugh, partly for them, does all that she can to bring a smile back unto their lips; so why can’t they do the same? But she doesn’t want them to pretend either, doesn’t want them swallowing down their pain simply for _her_ sake, and she’s just _so_ lost…

And then there comes a point when she _can’t_ carry on like this any longer. The tears start flowing down her cheeks, and it won’t help that she wipes them away, because others just keep falling, and suddenly, she’s shaking, and she has no idea however things are going to get better. All she can see and hear and feel is the pain now, the unhappiness, everywhere around her, and she hates herself for adding to that unhappiness. The tears are flowing. She wills them to stop falling, but they don’t listen. Nobody ever listens. _Haven’t I treated you well?_ she thinks at her heart.

It is only in her own loneliness that things finally seem to get better.

She wraps her arms around herself, smiles and smiles and smiles until the smile is real, and whispers low resolutions at herself, resolutions to be stronger in the future, to be strong for those around her, to provide them with the comfort and happiness she knows she can radiate, and to hold on longer this time. _I won’t let it reach me_ , she vows, _not this time._ There’s only one thing she fears: to have them see her be unhappy, and think themselves to be responsible for it. She won’t have that. This is _her_ problem, and she must learn to solve it, or, at the very least, appease it. She knows she can be strong enough. She knows. But others don’t, and if they see her breaking once, they’ll think her weak and frail. She holds on.

And when she ultimately falls and breaks once more, she finds comfort in the fact that this time, she lasted longer, that she had enough control over herself not to let anyone find out how much sensing their pain hurt her. Comfort in the fact that people are still being themselves around her, and that she’s still being enough for them.

The first time that Lancelot sees her break, she has been holding it all inside for a very long time. The past winter has been a particularly stressful period, with a lot of work at the castle, a lot of attacks from the outside, causing a lot of anxiety among the knights, and a lot of worrying on her own part regarding her friends’ safety. She’s been sleeping less than usual, has had less time to herself, therefore less time to acknowledge the ways she’s been aching, and, come daylight, she’s been smiling and doing her job. The knights finally come back to Camelot, and Elyan’s slightly hurt, her beloved idiot of a brother, but it’s nothing more than a broken arm and nothing feels better than holding him close against her and listening to him telling tales of how brave they were in the tavern, and tales of how afraid he was back in their house, under the light of their three favourite candles. Once Elyan has fallen asleep, she leaves their house to wander in the streets of Camelot, her heart beating insanely quickly inside her chest, and, as she stops near the square’s fountain, she finds herself grabbing onto the stone, feeling quite dizzy, all of a sudden, disorientated, overwhelmed with the realisation that _they’re back_.

 _They’re back, they’re back, they’re back_ , and she can’t remember the last time she felt so happy, but, oh, how scared Elyan must be out there, and what if she’d lost him? Thank the gods she didn’t, she doesn’t know how she would have borne it, after her mother and her father, she can’t lose him _too_ , can’t lose any friend either, can’t lose Lancelot, she hardly saw him earlier, she –

“Guinevere?”

Simply hearing his voice, she releases a deep breath, because his voice is soft, so, so soft, and not having heard it in months makes it even sweeter.

 _Lancelot_ , she thinks, and she thanks the gods for keeping him safe, thanks the gods for bringing him back to her, for not having him leave her, too. She wants to tell him never to leave her, but she doesn’t have the words.

And as for her body – well, her body doesn’t seem to connect with her head, not properly, at least, because as soon as her heart registers the knight’s presence, her body seems to take it as a cue to _let it all out_ , and so, in the space of a second, her knees get wobbly and her fingers start grabbing for the sleeves of her dress, yearning for something to grasp, something to cling on to.

And she knows, Lord, she _knows_ that she should not show it, because Lancelot is _someone_ , and the rule says that she mustn’t show it to anyone, and she might even want to add, _especially not to_ him, but the knowledge of it doesn’t do much to help her master her feelings, and, unbidden, they start to overflow.

Tears are falling down her cheeks, but she knows they’re just one fragment of all the things she is showing: it’s not about the tears, not really. Mostly, it’s about the way that her limbs seem to be calling for help, begging to be held, and how her face starts expressing it all, the distress and the angst and the pain, and what a pathetic sight she must make, truly. Her face must show it all now, with no restraint: all three months of keeping it all _in_ , smiling and trying to remain strong, trying to be enough for others to be well themselves, to lead the happy, safe lives that they deserve to be leading; months of containing her own fears and sparks of anger, absorbing the feelings of those around her in her stubborn quest of alleviating their pain –

She lets out a sob.

“Guinevere,” says Lancelot again, but his tone is choked, and as Gwen finally dares to look up at him, it is to see that his face is filled with shock.

But then shock is replaced with determination, pure, stubborn resolve, and Gwen feels more than she sees him lean near her, pressing his forehead against hers, and brush his lips against her cheeks, where tears keep trailing down. All of a sudden, his hands are all over her body, a warm print on her back and her neck and her face, and she can’t remember ever being apart from him, no more than she can fathom leaving him.

Lancelot saw her cry, and now, he is holding her close. He hasn’t asked her once to dry her tears.

And for a moment, she entertains the wild thought that she might in fact be lucky to feel so much oh so ardently, because she can’t remember ever feeling so good as in this instant, letting go of all these feelings, peacefully, healthily, all the while being held in such a way. To _let go_ with Lancelot’s arms around her and her face pressed against his neck is a thing she never dared envision before in her life, because it’s so _good_.

She’s got a man whispering her name, holding her close, welcoming her feelings, and that man is Lancelot. She’s not really surprised.

She probably ought to be ashamed, at least just a little, but she’s not that either.

She is – good. Utterly, incomprehensibly good.

Gwen buries one hand in Lancelot’s hair, tugging gently, and he lets her. She can feel his heartbeat, right against her own, and the mere thought of it, the mere thought of that beloved heart beating just against hers, fills her with an inexplicable sense of joy.

She can’t say much underneath all the sobs, but she still presses a chaste kiss to Lancelot’s neck, thinking, _thank you_. He does not reply, but she can feel his heart beating even more quickly against hers, and delights in the sound.

“Better?” Lancelot ask when they part, and he doesn’t sound like he is expecting any specific answer. He is just asking. Genuinely, earnestly asking whether or not Gwen is feeling better.

And the mad thing is: she is.

So she nods, somehow knowing that he will know that she means it with all of her heart, because that’s what he does: he watches and he knows.

They’re both sitting on the edge of the fountain, with Lancelot’s hand curled over hers, and her head resting on his shoulder. The village is silent, save for a few dogs barking in the distance and faint sounds of cheering coming from the nearby taverns. Gwen thanks the gods for Lancelot’s birth. The knight’s breath against her face is a comfort she never knew she needed, and has no idea however she will go without now.

“Does it happen often?” the man asks, voice low. The moment is intimate. Gwen never wants it to end.

“Yes.” His thumb is brushing hers softly, and she snuggles her head even closer to his face, sighing in contentment. She loves Lancelot’s hands, she suddenly decides. “Always has, for as long as I can remember.”

“How do you cope?”

She shrugs. “It’s not that bad. Don’t pity me, Lancelot.”

“I don’t. I merely wish I could make it easier for you.”

“You do!” she instantly replies, her head leaving his shoulder. “You _are_. Not that I’m asking from you that you do it again,” she hurriedly adds, glancing down at her and Lancelot’s thighs, that are touching. “I’d never ask that of you, _never_.”

The knight brushes a thumb against her chin, tilting it upwards, towards him, and his eyes seem to be filled with deep fondness as they look at her. “You don’t understand, do you?” he asks.

She frowns. “Understand what?”

“How grateful I am,” he says, with a smile on his lips, “that you did not shy away, that you did not hide. From _me_.”

“I would never hide from you,” she whispers.

“Then will you promise me something?”

She nods, trying not to think too much about how consuming the feeling of his fingers against her bare skin is.

“If this happens again – “

“ _When_ ,” she rectifies, then smiles apologetically.

“When, then.” He’s smiling, but his eyes are serious. “Will you come to me then? Will you not remain on your own?”

“I’ve always been on my own,” she murmurs.

“Do you prefer it when I’m not here?” he asks, and she can tell by the look in his eyes that he is once more earnestly asking the question, and that he will accept whichever answer she will give.

She laughs at the absurdity of his words. “Of course not.” She wanted to add something, but suddenly she’s forgotten what it was, forgotten any excuse she might have raised to keep Lancelot away from her, and at the sight of the smile that he gives her, she doesn’t want to remember.

Lancelot and she spend the whole night either sitting next to the other, or taking a walk in the village, and they speak of compassion and empathy and love.

It’s the best night Gwen can ever remember spending.

From this day on, Lancelot not only seems to know her better, but he also starts behaving a little differently – not in a bad way, though. It’s little things at first. Like asking the knights to cheer up when she’s around and pains to get a grip on her emotions, and they’re being all grumpy, or pressing a hand on the small on her back to distract her when he feels that her thoughts are drifting away. As time goes, his gestures gain confidence, and he starts whispering things to make her laugh, or murmuring words to warm her heart. He asks her questions, tries to understand her better. And when she’s on the verge of bursting, he makes sure they’re alone, just the two of them, and kneels in front of her and holds her, trying to create a world of comfort and peace, just for the two of them.

In these moments, he makes sure he’s all that she sees, and tries to convince her that it’s all that matters. That _they_ ’re all that matters. “You deserve all the peace in the world, my love,” he whispers, pressing kisses to her skin, showing her only love, “all the peace and all the love.”

They have conversations, too. Long conversations by the fire, limbs entangled, eyes filled with gratitude for the other’s presence. Sometimes, the conversations turn into small quarrels, small disagreements.

“Sometimes, I wish I wouldn’t care so much.”

“You care, Guinevere, and that’s a marvellous thing, because caring is precisely what our world lacks.”

“Then why do people present it as such a weakness?”

“Maybe because they lack it, and therefore miss all the strength it requires for an individual to harbour it all.”

“But I can’t ask from you that you shelter it, too! I can’t ask from any lover that they bury their pain so they can spare mine. That’s the problem, you see? If I’m with anyone, I can’t have them feeling guilty about their _own_ unhappiness. ‘T wouldn’t be fair, would it?”

“One thing I’ve learnt during my time in Camelot is that people from around here have been taught to dislike difference. They either dismiss it as insignificant and weak, or threatening and dangerous. I think that you’re special, Guinevere, and that you caring so much only makes you stronger. You may feel that you burden me, but you don’t, you never will. You care, it’s who you are, and I wouldn’t want you any other way. All that we need to agree on is that each time you’ll find yourself caring to the extent that it hurts, then I’ll be there. Always. To catch you. Hold you. Hopefully help you feel better.”

“Even when it’s ugly?”

“I said always, didn’t I?”

What Gwen loves the most, she thinks, are the moments _after_ it’s ugly. The moments when they simply hold the other and whisper secrets in the darkness of the night.

“How can you think that you are not enough?” Lancelot asks her, thumbs brushing the tears that are beginning to dry on her cheeks. He looks at her like she’s something precious to behold, even when she breaks, even when things are ugly. No matter what she looks like, the love in his eyes never falters. “You are more than this world deserves.”

Being vulnerable, Gwen starts to understand, does not necessarily mean not being enough. She can be both. She is vulnerable because she cares, and caring will never be wrong. Just because people believe some things doesn’t make them true.

The only thing really true in this world, she thinks, is love, and she has got _so much_ of it.

It is in Lancelot’s arms that she finds most solace, with him brushing her hair with his lips and whispering at her ear, “I’m alright, you’re alright, and that’s all that matters. That everything is alright and everything is well. Hear my heart. Hear how we live, and breathe. We’re alright.”

She may fall when she’s in his arms, but she also rises the strongest. She doesn’t feel _meek of heart_ when they’re together, nor when they’re apart, for that matter.

She feels that her heart can contain so much emotion that sometimes, it feels like bursting, and she can’t remember whyever she ever thought that it was wrong to feel this way, when it feels like the rightest thing in the world. It may hurt, but at least it’s genuine, and it is a sign that she breathes, and all of a sudden, she no longer resents her heart for feeling things so acutely.

 _My heart is strong_ , she thinks, _and so am I._

It is the last resolution that she ever makes.

**The end**


End file.
